When people come to speak to me, whatever they say, I am struck by a kind of incandescence in them, the 'I' whose predicate can be 'love' or 'fear' or 'want', and whose object can be 'someone' or 'nothing' and it won't really matter, because the loveliness is just in that presence, shaped around 'I' like a flame on a wick, emanating itself in grief and guilt and joy and whatever else. But quick, and avid, and resourceful. To see this aspect of life is a privilege of the ministry which is seldom mentioned.

4.5
(I already want to reread this book. Gilead is probably more of a 5 star read but I couldn't appreciate it as much as I would've wanted to as life just got in the way. This is, obviously, no fault of the book's at all, and I'm definitely going to revisit it soon.)

A soul aching look at one man's life as he reflects and ruminates on his past and the future he knows will continue without him. John Ames is writing this in an attempt to leave a fragment of himself for his son when he's older so he can have an understanding of what his father was like but, really, this is for John himself.

It's a difficult book to write about because it is so emotional. Told in fragmented paragraphs, you literally feel like you can see this man dismantling his life and showing the pieces to you; Robinson beautifully captures the ebb and flow of life, the wave-like movements of resurfacing memories and the dazed experience of the present, which is becoming murkier day by day. It wasn't always easy to distinguish John's childhood and adulthood memories as he relays stories his own father had told him growing up, about his one-eyed grandfather and the hardships his family endured, particularly financially.

I was intended to read Home, Lila, and Jack in quick succession after this novel, like I did with Ali Smith's Seasonal Quartet but these books need space, I feel. I need to really mull this one over before I can return to this story and, like I said, maybe even reread it.